Archive for September, 2015

It isn’t true. I don’t believe it. Your ashes are not scattered all over the place, who knows where. You did not die over 8 and a -half years ago. You are still here. I love you and I see you everywhere. When a K9 is protecting someone of importance, you are that dog. When an owner walks his or her German shepherd, it is you they are walking. When a child hugs a dog, he or she is hugging you. Your spirit is alive. Your soul has taken hold of my memory.

1:30 A.M. Someone with a flashlight stood over her. She opened her eyes. An unsmiling person in a blue uniform looked at her. “You can’t stay here. These are the steps of a church,” he said. She said nothing and got up slowly. “If you need shelter, I can direct you to one.” “No, thank you.” The cop waited for her to get her suitcases ready to move on. The steps of a church, she thought. Is this because of the Pope’s visit to NYC? Isn’t the Church about love and mercy and letting people who are minding their own business sleep at night?”

It doesn’t matter anymore. If it once did matter, things have changed. It is different now. Before, not long ago, we were trapped. Now we are free to do what we need to do. And our freedom feels joyful. It’s like we are kids in a candy store, with all the sweets we want to sample. The minutes and seconds with not having to worry about our former restrictions are precious. A great big weight is gone from us. We can walk fast and go anywhere we want. We can feel proud.

She goes to see her, the little brown thing. She bends down and kisses her on the top of her head. She strokes her chin and the little creature looks up at her with her big yellow eyes. “I am your owner. I love you.” She doesn’t know if the little creature understands. A while later in the kitchen someone opens a can of wet food. The little creature runs. She has followed the other woman.

She woke up. A tall, young and good looking man stood over her. “Wake up, miss. You have to leave.” She nodded. “What time is it?” “3:35 A.M. ” ” I thought we could stay here until 5:30 or 6.” He shook his head. ” Things have changed since yesterday.” She got up slowly and held on to the column. Why can’t they let me sleep? Where am i going to go now? She grabbed the handle of the suitcase and walked slowly towards the corner.

Living. If you can call it that. Living by the steps and the rain comes down. The water is hard. The person grabs hold of the belongings and tries to run. The person almost stumbles.The hands carry the suitcase. Across the street. Is across the street a safe place? And if it is, for how long? How safe is it and for how many hours?

It is out time. You have to be out by 6. The man said so and the woman got up. It was hard for her to do it and she stumbled. She held on to the wall and sighed. A few more minutes, just 10 or 15 and she’d be safe under a real roof.

Moments—we had great moments, you and I. Everything seemed perfect. It was as if we were living in a picture postcard place. Everything was and felt right. Even when we got wet in the rain, we didn’t care. The water poured down on us, but we were happy. That was all that mattered.

The short, thin man stood up. He opened his mouth. “My Lord, please help! It hurts!” His knees shook; he sat down on the concrete seat. He held on to his head with both hands. From out of nowhere, a young man approached him. The man looked up and reached into his pocket. “I’ll bring the ATM card and give you a dollar,” he told him.

The seat—if one can call it that—is made of concrete. It is hard and off white. Cockroaches—one or two or three—walk by the steps. They stop by and go on. Later they come back. The cockroaches are big, about the size of a silver dollar. Sitting on the concrete there makes the body ache. People often walk up the steps. More often than not, these are tourists; the wooden doors of the building are of interest to them. Sometimes the tourists look down at the people stretched out by the doors. There are more men than there are women. Because the early morning is windy, there are blankets on the people sleeping by the doors. Passers-by look up and then they look down.